


Eos

by The_Torturer_Writes



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Blood and bits, F/M, Kidnapping, LOOK YOU KNOW WHO I AM OK, Med/surg, Non-con/dub-con, References to Emesis/Vom, References to forced addiction, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Watersports, dead dove do not eat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:13:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27044809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Torturer_Writes/pseuds/The_Torturer_Writes
Summary: Unblinking, unfocused, you stared at the metronome, losing track of what you were supposed to do. She liked the metronome, Dr. Howard, because it kept her patients calm when reliving their trauma. At least that’s what she told you.It was your name that drew you back. Not your actual name — the one he’d given you. Your legal name. The one in all the papers.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You, Modern AU - Relationship
Comments: 12
Kudos: 40





	Eos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meowageddon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowageddon/gifts).



> This is not for the faint of heart. And do not come for me over this. Non-con/dub-con is a valid fantasy.
> 
> That being said, this should be considered a prequel to [Get It Right](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24630979) and is for Meowageddon, who wanted more.

_Tick tock tick  
_ _Tick tock tick_

Unblinking, unfocused, you stared at the metronome, losing track of what you were supposed to do. She liked the metronome, Dr. Howard, because it kept her patients calm when reliving their trauma. At least that’s what she told you.

It was your name that drew you back. Not your actual name — the one he’d given you. Your legal name. The one in all the papers.

“He held you captive for three years,” she said, as though you didn’t know, down to the hour, how long he had you. “Are you ready to talk about what he did to you?”

The detective said they needed to know so they could make an accurate accounting in the file.

But how could you answer?

“The... the first year…” 

... was all pain.

You didn’t come to his life willingly; he stole you from a happy home and a family that loved you. In the dead of night, he crept into your house, punched you so hard he fractured your jaw and broke your nose, and carried your limp body out with no one the wiser for it.

Your jaw was wired shut for weeks, which lent itself well to his design. The first few days, you shouted yourself dizzy, but all that came out was a muffled wheeze; and when you cried too hard, you choked on your own spit. The blockage at your broken nose kept you from breathing normally. Inside a week, you learned to not scream lest you asphyxiate from the effort.

Everything made you wretch — the smell of him, the smell of yourself, the water, the air, the plump head of his cock as it rubbed against your puffy, useless mouth.

Thinking you’d suicide your way out of this hell and deny him his newfound plaything, you plastered yourself to the corner of the dismal room, refusing food and water. Undeterred, he shoved an NG tube into your battered nose to scratch along the back of your throat. Force feeding you was something he thoroughly enjoyed, as was the waterboarding that inevitably followed to ensure hydration made it down your gullet.

That was the first time he fucked you. Drenched and bent over the very table he drowned you on, he wracked open your body and growled possessively at your pitiable screams. Your muted sobs only made him pound at you, claw at you, that much harder. On autopilot, your body made space for him, clenched tight around each violent shove of his dick, and fell headlong into something you tried to tell yourself was just a physical response.

Mangled as your face was, bruised and locked up tight, you could do nothing but swallow the bile, the half processed liquid diet, the snotty water your body tried to expel as you jerked and quaked through the unwelcome orgasm.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

“WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!?”

You screamed when he caught you trying to escape, having scraped your fingers bloody, trying to gouge the lock from the door. He dragged you down into the bowels of his house, throwing you into a pitch black cellar. He forced pins beneath your nails so you couldn’t use your fingers and set them with super glue.

“To keep you from pulling them loose,” he chided. 

It was a gruesome manicure, and it set your teeth to grinding. Your fingers throbbed, and you could feel each individual pin. It drove you mad until you finally did rip one set of pins free, along with the entire nail. Your echoing screams only drove you further into a rage; and soon, there were no more pins. No more glue. No more nails.

Exhausted, you collapsed into a dirty heap in the corner.

Under his feet, beneath his very floor, you continually wailed and pleaded, shouted and begged, but he ignored you. For days, possibly weeks. He only came to see you nourished, which no longer included the NG tube, but instead a handful of supplements he forced you to swallow, washed down by a gallon of water and his sticky seed.

You were too filthy to be fucked, he told you.

Angered by his judgment, you spat at him. You rallied and railed that you were filthy because of him. He kept you in that hole with only a goddamn bucket and a worn mattress on the floor like a fucking animal.

Your outburst cost you the bucket and gained you a regular rotation of ORS, accompanied by his thick fingers buried in your cunt and his weighty palm pressing on your abdomen until you could no longer control your bladder. You wept each time he coaxed the golden liquid from you and fumed when he told you how much better he liked you when you behaved.

That became the first rule.

You asked his permission to urinate.

When you disobeyed and relieved yourself without asking, he shoved you face first into your own waste and belted you bloody. When you followed the rule, when you waited for him to arrive and told him of your need, you often got his fingers in your pussy, pumping and curling, sending you into a subdued, subtle orgasm until you pissed in his hand.

The alleviation of your discomfort was always so palpable. Punctuated with breathy, grateful moans, it stole your dignity. You hated that he wanted this ritual, but you hated more than you came to crave it. Each time, he pressed his lips to your temple and bore your sagging weight. He clucked and crooned that you could be such a good girl if you wanted.

He only had to slap you once before you licked his dirtied hand clean.

Complying with his demand earned you food, water you didn’t have to fear, and a clean mattress, but your basement cell was still frigid, and your bare legs and feet still froze. It was only when his harsh treatment and inhospitable accommodations made you ill that he relented. He carried you and your pneumonia up into the house proper and helped you through the first bath you could remember in what felt like months.

Too feverish to enjoy it properly, you cried into his shoulder, clinging to him as he washed your back. And though you knew it was madness, knew it was the sickness, you murmured thanks and fell asleep against his broad chest.

 _Tock tick tock  
_ _Tock tick tock_

Dr. Howard stared at you, mouth agape, for an uncomfortably long time. Unable to remain stoic, her face telegraphed every thought. She was horrified, plainly terrified, and, at the same time, amazed that you sat here in her office, telling her such awful things as though you made pleasant conversation. 

“Do you, ah…” Her brow furrowed, and she fidgeted. “Do you need to take a break? Get a snack? Use the…”

You chewed the inside of your lip subtly as her thought trailed off. Use the facilities, your mind furnished. She couldn’t bring herself to ask you if you needed to pee, given what she’d learned. You debated telling her you couldn’t force yourself, no matter how hard you tried. Instead, you had to wait until need won out over volition.

“No, thank you.” You brushed an imaginary fuzzball off of your skirt hem and looked away, a flush creeping into your cheeks at the memory of his fingers inside you. “I’d rather do this all today, if possible.”

“Ah.” She nodded and scribbled something down. “Please, go on.”

Your gaze crawled over the books lining the wall behind her desk, reminding you of his library and the mountain of books he made you read to him. Your shoulders rose and fell on a sigh, the intake of breath no longer steadying as it had been then. It was simply function now.

“The second year was transformation. That’s what he called it.”

Satisfied that he broke you of any desire to flee, he started with your teeth. Uncommon, you made it to adulthood with all of your wisdom teeth, which he had removed to make more room in your mouth for his cock, to ensure they wouldn’t scrape at him when he forced himself into your throat, which he did every morning.

No longer banished to the basement, you slept tied to the foot of his bed. First, it was with heavy, scratchy coconut rope, and your mornings started with a roughshod swallow when he awoke. You knew better than to outright fight him, but you still leaned away, still shook your head no, and he punished you for it with a face fucking so brutal your lips split.

When you accepted his cock with no derision, no argument, you earned medication, a sedative for your night terrors or a pain pill for your discomfort. When you sucked his dick of your own will, without him holding you in place and rutting into your mouth like a savage, you earned a less coarse rope and a pillow upon which to sleep.

That became the second rule. 

Knelt at the side of his bed, you worshiped his cock every morning, gulping down whatever he saw fit to give you that day, be it his cum, his piss, or a blend of both.

Next, it was your eyes. Nearsighted on the left and farsighted on the right, your prescription was so strong, he had been a blurry demon for a year without your glasses. And now that he no longer had to beat you senseless every day, that would not do.

“The devil is in the details,” he said, wanting you to remember every moment in vivid color.

You cried when you saw him clearly for the first time. Great, untamable sobs erupted from your chest because you didn’t understand how someone so beautiful could be so inhumane. Even without perfect vision, you knew he was tall, wide, and muscular. You knew his hair was dark and wavy. But you didn’t know the line of his nose was so poetic. Nor did you know that his lips quivered as he pondered. 

It was only when you saw the details, just as he wanted, that you realized you knew him. You’d seen him. You remembered smiling at him in the shop every day. Putting together the puzzle, you realized he planned for this, for you.

Halfway through the year, when you were compliant, quiet, and addicted to the steady stream of pharmaceuticals he plied you with, there came a tracker in your throat and laryngeal chondroplasty to make the pitch of your voice more pleasing. You had a pretty voice, he told you, but your screams weren’t high enough. Your whimpers didn’t have that special something.

He tested it by withholding the medication he’d allowed you to become dependent upon. You scratched at the walls, shuddering and whining. You jerked against the iron collar keeping you within a foot of his bed. You pleaded with him for just one pill, just one of anything to make you feel better. You bartered with nothing and promised to do anything if he would chase away these tremors, these shakes and hallucinations.

Only when he wanted, no sooner, did he give you what you sought. Two little pills were all it took for you to brace yourself on hands and knees and whore yourself for him. That night, he fucked you hoarse. On the floor like a beast, he slapped and choked you while shoving his massive length all the way into your guts and prodding you to say what he wanted again and again and again.

And you did.

_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

That became the third rule.

You thanked him every time he fucked you, more so if he allowed you to orgasm.

You couldn’t remember when your breasts changed. You’d simply awoken one morning from a medicated fog to burning chest muscles and tits that sat higher, perkier than before. He liked to palm them as he made plans, to pluck and tug and roll the nipples until your ragged breathing lured him away from his blueprints.

He never allowed you any clothing, even when he set you to working in his home. He wanted to feel your hips, to dip his fingers into your sex when he caught you bent over to clean, to fuck you whenever the fancy struck him. He often kept you in his lap, either curled into his chest upon it or bent over it and strapped to his chair.

Finally, you underwent tubal ligation. He debated the pros and cons — though not actually with you — of it versus an outright hysterectomy for weeks. He didn’t trust the vasectomy he had and wanted to be sure. Children, he reminded you, were not part of his plan; and thus, they were no longer a possibility for your future.

After the last surgery, he put you through a detox program. Less harsh than the abrupt first round, he combated your withdrawals and illness by wringing a long string of orgasms from your overheated body. You slept through half of it; and when you weren't sleeping, he sent you into orbit with his lips, his fingers, his cock.

From then forward, he allowed you human food, even teaching you how to cook his favorite dishes, but he controlled your portions, your supplements, your hydration. And your exercise to stave off atrophy.

At the close of the year, after the false color had grown out and your long hair hung its natural hue, he told you that your transformation was complete. Your body was stronger, having run the gauntlet in his name, and you were healthier than you’d ever been. 

Pressing your lips into a firm line, you looked away from Dr. Howard, diving into the memory as though it would warm you.

His fourth rule was that you ride his dick every night, slowly, languidly. He didn’t always cum when you did it, a fact that somehow sorely disappointed you, but he wanted to watch you stretch and writhe. He wanted to run his hands over the body he molded, to appreciate the effects of your metamorphosis. 

At midnight of the third year, he gave you a new name.

You cried when he said it, when he repeated it again and again. Head tipped back, his hands everywhere, filled to the brim with his thick cock, fat tears spilled from the corners of your eyes because he said it with such tenderness, such possessiveness you felt branded by it.

He wasn’t wrong. You were a wholly different person — whether or not you wanted it.

“What was it? The new name?” 

She asked on bated breath. She even leaned forward in her chair, engrossed as though your life, your ordeal, was a suspenseful movie or salacious novel. The look you gave her was charged with ire, a clap back on your features that needed no words.

Realizing she’d been caught, Dr. Howard slipped back into clinical professionalism and rifled through the file on her lap. She made a few notes, which you believed were little more than doodles and simply a way to regain some ground she’d lost.

“When did you learn he was hurting people?”

“June of the 3rd year.”

She looked at you incredulously, taking off her glasses to huff slightly. “He’d killed 6 people by then. What were you doing?”

“Training.”

Your education into his extra-curricular activities began the day he called your new name, and you looked up automatically. It took time. You rarely realized he was even speaking to you until he threw a book at your head or kicked the chair out from beneath you. To punctuate the conditioning, he buried his face between your thighs at least twice a day, but he wouldn’t let you cum until you repeated it to his satisfaction.

“My name is… my name is… my name is…”

Much the way sheltered children are bought private educations, he arranged for you to have tutors in subjects he deemed fit. You studied anatomy, infrastructure, and chemistry. You learned to speak Italian, Dutch, Farsi, and a handful of other languages. Some more than others, but all to the point you could get by. He demanded you slog through massive texts on physiology, engineering, even rudimentary architecture.

For a month, he hired a dominatrix to teach you about knots, rope, and bondage. You tied yourself to chairs and columns, learned how to wiggle out of what most people thought were secure bindings, and made quick-and-dirty cuffs and gags from a single length of clothesline rope. Every lesson ended with you in a hogtie and him balls deep inside you some way or another.

Masseurs came to teach you about pressure points and fascia. Nurses gave you lessons on starting an IV, administering fluids, and creating an arterial tap. You learned jiu jitsu and how best to break bones, how to perform a choke hold properly, and the quickest way to subdue someone twice your size.

He hosted dinner parties at which his guests, doctors and lawyers, discussed Mozart, politics, and hypothetical ways to disarticulate a human body, to eliminate evidence of a crime, to elude the supposed authorities just by being patient. Don’t make rash decisions, they said. Stay calm; don’t deviate from your plan.

“Why did you not try to escape?” One red brow piqued over Dr. Howard’s eye, and she continued. “It is arguable that you were well qualified to fight your way to freedom. Why didn’t you?”

You looked towards the window. This was the thing she wanted to know more than anything. Yes, she wanted the gory details of his crimes for the records, and she wanted to know how you made it through all that time alive. But she really wanted to know why you weren’t chained to a radiator, emaciated, or addicted to heroin. The way she expected. She especially wanted to know why you didn’t run.

“If I had a suitable answer for that, I doubt I’d be here, Dr. Howard.”

Two and a half years into your captivity, his ownership was complete. You not only obeyed without hesitation; you often anticipated his demands, and you routinely left his home for errands without the compulsion to flee. Now when he beat you, it was because he wanted to see you suffer rather than needing to re-educate or punish you. When he took away your food or your bed, it was to sate his sadism. Instead of waterboarding you in the basement like a hostage, he plunged your face into ice-cold bath water while he fucked you from behind in ornate hotel rooms around the world.

It wasn’t that you were too afraid to escape. He eviscerated everything that made you you. To where you knew you’d never fit into the life, the family, you had before. It was this revelation, this acceptance that planted the seed that would become his trust.

He believed you would never leave. To say you didn’t believe the same would be a lie.

His seventh victim instituted your fifth rule. 

Your information, your input, was accurate; or you paid the consequence.

He nearly lost her because the information you gave him on the tunnel system was outdated. The city filled in some tunnels with concrete to keep the streets above from collapsing, but that information hadn’t made it onto the schematics you found online. You didn’t know he needed the information to kidnap someone, but that was the night you learned it was him leaving women stitched up and bloody in abandoned churches.

The only kindness he showed you was that he did not carve at your sides the way he did with them. But he used the same coarse black thread. He sliced off chunks of your skin and rubbed the same jagged salt into your wounds. And he sewed your flesh to itself to pay back the trouble you’d caused.

All before he dragged you to the edge of his bench, yanked your head back to hang over it, and forced his cock directly into your throat. He gripped your neck as he watched himself slide in and out; and right before he climaxed, he tore at the dreadful stitches with his bare hands so he could cut off your screams with the throb of his dick and gag you on his cum.

After that, your research was tireless, your intel unshakable.

“Did you ever help him kidnap or hurt someone?”

You met her assessing stare, certain that the true reason you were here was because the law, the victim families, needed someone to blame. Everyone knew it was him, but some rookie hotshot was too excited to get his load off, and the guy they came to arrest ended up in the morgue. You were the only link to him, the only potential prosecutable person. Despite the fact you were, in the most basic sense of the word, a victim, too.

“I gave him the information he asked me for.” You nodded, giving her this admission because it was true. What you told him directly led to the suffering of others. “But I did not take part in any of his crimes beyond that.”

She must have believed you because the interview wrapped up within 30 minutes of that confession. It isn’t uncommon, she told you, for victims to develop Stockholm Syndrome, but your case was particularly severe, and the bond was particularly strong because of it. She would give her report to the detectives, and she scheduled you for another appointment in a few days.

“It will take a lot of work, but you can come back from this.”

Feigning a brief smile, you left, threw the appointment card into the street, and ducked into the nearest taxi. This life, this ‘real’ life, felt foreign, muddled. The car felt too small; the hotel felt too empty. Everything you knew from the last three years was ripped violently from you, and the rest of the world expected that you would pick right up where you left off and carry on.

Inside your room, you dropped your things to the floor. The key clattered, and your bag tipped over haphazardly. Trivial things. Without turning on the light, you dramatically tore off your clothes and, blessedly free from all of that fucking fabric, pondered all the things you didn’t tell Dr. Howard.

You didn’t tell her you hadn’t seen your family since they had found you, or that you didn’t want to. You didn’t tell her you couldn’t stand to wear clothes when you were in whatever semblance of home you had. He kept you naked for so long, always ready for him, that it felt sacrilegious to hide behind them.

Passing by the full-length mirror, you gazed at your reflection, tracing your outline in the glass. When she asked why you refused a rape kit, you hadn’t shared how he’d cemented his ownership of you with tattoos, the kind nobody else knew about. Tattoos he could see in the dark. Absently, you ran your fingers along the UV ink marking your sternum, admiring the soft glow it lent you. His molded clay. His masterpiece.

You barely heard it, your name whispered. 

It was so soft; you didn’t think it was real. Sobs jumped up into your throat, and you covered your mouth to keep them quiet. You pressed your forehead against the mirror, trying desperately to keep your mourning on the inside of your skin.

Again it came, louder, surer.

Your tears, your breath, your heart stopped. You whipped your head around to look over one shoulder to the black mass occupying the darkest corner of the pre-fab room. The little desk light switched on, casting that corner, and its person, into a soft glow.

You flew to him, leaping over the bed and shoving the ottoman out of the way. You vibrated, barely managing to not throw yourself into his arms. You only touched him when he allowed it, but the effort to obey in this moment was colossal and brutal.

“You…” Your voice wavered. You lifted bewildered eyes to his, pushing your hands into your hair to keep from reaching for him. “You’re here.”

“On your knees, pet.” The barest hint of a smile tugged the corner of his mouth up.

It was all the permission you needed. You hit the floor with a thud and pressed your face between his thick thighs. You ran your hands up his sides and fought the urge to tear his clothes to pieces. You slid loose the expensive belt with its silver buckle and tugged pants and underwear out of the way. Your heart rate kicked up higher and higher. Your mouth watered.

When his growing girth sprang free, you kissed the little dip where it met his body, nuzzling your mouth and cheeks there elatedly. Frantic for the velvet feel of his skin, you enveloped his dick with your mouth on a soft whimper. You mouthed and licked and nipped until he was fully erect, straining red and purple.

His ragged breathing drew your focus, searing this minute, and the way he looked, into your mind forever. Flushed, dotted with beads of sweat, lips parted and panting, he was everything you dreamed about these desolate weeks and more. Beyond that, he missed you. You saw it in his face.

Wasting no time, you curled your tongue around the head of his dick and slid onto it, humming at the weight on your tongue. Slicking up his length, you vaulted into a quick pace, bobbing up and down hurriedly. You needed to taste him, to feel the twitch right before he poured into your mouth. His soft groan at your tight, insistent lips had your eyes upon him, which earned you another heavenly purr of approval. He allowed you to worship, to lathe him with your tongue and bathe him with your spit.

But then, he didn’t.

Wide hands wrapped entirely around your skull, and broad hips surged forward to lodge his cock as far into your face, and down into your throat, as physically possible. Where you’d have fought him before, you now groaned. Your body tightened, lengthened, moistened.

Your desire for his meanness was grotesque, carefully curated and expertly executed.

“Did you tell them? Hm?”

He pulled you off of his dick so fast you sputtered. Sticky ropes of spit connected you to him, and you struggled to think. He didn’t give you any time to answer before he bucked forward and sunk back in. You gagged around him. Your tongue jumped and tried to curl up, but he occupied every centimeter of your stretched mouth.

“Did you fucking tell them?”

At the next reprieve, as you sucked down air miserably, you shook your head as best you could against the tangle of his fingers at the back of your skull. You blinked hard to make the two of him combine to one.

“Th-they didn’t ask me that.” You fought to steady your heaving chest, to calm the thunderous beat of your heart. “They think you’re dead.” You bit at your swelling lower lip and tried to hide the falter of your voice. “I thought you died.”

“Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

Every muscle clenched. You wanted to obey, but you also needed something in this moment. You couldn’t put words to it, but you crumpled, both hands slamming against the floor. You keened, louder than you expected, because the war inside you was too great.

“Please.” You wept, reaching out to clutch at the toe of his shoe. “It’s… it’s been weeks. I need…”

_Your dick. Your hands. Your belt. Make me see stars. Make me bleed and scream and burn. Drown me. Bite me. Hit me. Crush me underfoot. Anything so you’ll see me._

_The me you made._

“Stand up.” His fingers dug bruises into the soft flesh under your arm and hoisted you up. “Fast.”

He spun you and lifted you onto your toes. You clawed at your own thighs for a bit of leverage, but he held you exactly where he wanted with his incredible strength. With not even a hint of caring, he lined the fat head of his dick up with your opening and slammed all the way home in one vicious thrust.

Valiantly, you didn’t scream. You shook and swallowed hot tears, but you didn’t scream. You remembered the rule, though, and the words tumbled from your mouth louder than you intended.

“Thank you. Fucking Christ, thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

He gripped half of your face in his right hand, shutting you up with a growl and making himself an effective handle. He dug fingers into your soft belly and rammed into you, painfully filling you, driving you mindless. The flutter of his breath at your ear, the sexy grunt against your shoulder, the bite at your throat, all of it coalesced to send you reeling.

“We have fucking work to do.” He groaned into the side of your neck, his thrusts unrelenting but stuttering. “And you’re begging to be fucked like a common whore.”

You squirmed at the lewd squelches coming from your flooded cunt and whined against his palm. You knew you’d pay for it later, for making him wait with your idiot feelings, but even the thought of that lit you up, fire under your flesh. Another gush of molten slick perfumed the air as you imagined him carving you up again or tying you to the bedpost and beating you to sleep. 

Cursing, he wrapped both hands around your hips, and threw himself into you recklessly. You plastered both of your hands where his had been to dampen the shrieks you couldn’t possibly keep down. You knew better than to cum without his permission, but he hadn’t even given you leave to beg. Still, your body tightened, and your cunt contracted, dangerously close.

“Say it, pet.” His voice was choppy, split by labored breaths. He was going to spill into your sloppy pussy any second, and you flew, leaving your body until he gouged trenches into your back with his uneven nails. “Fucking say it.”

An otherworldly calm settled over you, slipping you further away from whatever the normal world was and into this mania with him. It was delirious, abhorrent, obscene. 

He made you his own pet monster, blood hungry, wanton, and vulgar.

“My name is Eos.” Somehow, your breathy voice was stable. “And I belong to Kylo Ren.”

**Author's Note:**

> ORS = Oral Rehydration Solution

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Woe to All (On the Day of My Wrath)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27309781) by [badtour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badtour/pseuds/badtour)




End file.
